The Impossible Tree
by UrbanHymnal
Summary: A rough Christmas Eve for Carlton Lassiter results in Shawn discovering several impossible things about him. Written as part of a Secret Santa exchange.


AN: This was written for ZedPM as part of a Secret Santa exchange. Since we didn't reveal who we were until just before Christmas, this is a day late for the rest of you fine folk. Apologies.

* * *

There is an impossible Christmas tree standing in the living room. To be fair, there is nothing wrong with the Christmas tree itself—it's really a lovely dark green and, despite the fact that it is real, the needles on the floor have been kept to a minimum. Even more bizarre, the tree is themed; bright red glass ornaments swing next to fragile snowflakes, and, while it is not lit presently, he can tell that the white lights decorating the tree would _twinkle_. Maybe even sparkle. It would be pretty if it weren't completely and utterly impossible.

"Shawn? A little help here?" Juliet is sagging under the weight of her partner as Shawn stands gaping at the evergreen standing smack dab in the middle of Carlton Lassiter's living room.

"Jules… am I imagining and slash or hallucinating again?" Shawn casts a subtle glance around for Tony Cox. "Check the cabinets."

Lassiter groans and lurches forward, obviously growing frustrated with standing in his doorway. "Spencer, there is nothing in my cabinets but pots, pans…" He squints hard for a moment and swallows slowly. "And… Drusilla." He wavers for a second without Shawn and Juliet acting as crutches and his face slowly drains of all color.

"You keep a Disney villain in your kitchen cabinets? What do you have against Dalmatian puppies? Gus would be horrified." Shawn dives forward just as Lassiter's knees begin to sag and catches his around his waist. Lassiter's face comes to rest again Shawn's sternum, nose smashed against his plaid shirt. "Um… Jules?"

"Bathroom. It will be easier to clean him up in there." She flicks on lights as she goes, Her heels click across the hardwood floor.

"Okay, Lassifrass, got your sea legs yet?"

" 's a gun."

"Okay, do you have your gun legs yet?" He shuffles the two of them backwards, trying to urge Lassiter to his feet.

"No. Drusilla is my gun. Was my grandmother's."

Shawn throws a glance over his shoulder, hearing Juliet rummaging in the bathroom for the first aid kit. "Is this the wife of Mascomb?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Spencer."

"Would hate to be ridiculous. Just awful being accused of being ridiculous. Like being accused of witchcraft, which I hear is a common thing among women named Drusilla." He grunts and shifts Lassiter's weight. "They like to steal voices of sea maidens."

"Sp'nc'r." Lassiter hiccups midway through his name, followed by a spectacular burp.

"Is that my wood elf name?"

Lassiter grunts and wiggles in his arms, trying to stand up right. Exasperated, Shawn tugs him closer and keeps walking. "Only I don't particularly care for the outdoors, so I would have to be a wood elf that left his home for the city. I'd have a gnome sidekick named G's. No, wait. Gu'. 'us?" He shifts his grip on his rather boneless burden, trying to keep them both upright.

"Get off!" Lassiter growls, patience worn thin by what Shawn assumes is a massive headache, if the spectacular bruising across his temple and the way his hair is matted with blood just behind his left ear is anything to go by. Still, Shawn is caught by surprise by the sudden force of Lassiter's shove; he trips over the rug in the hallway before landing with resounding thud. Juliet's appearance is the only thing that saves the unsteady Lassiter from spectacularly face-planting into the carpet. She grabs her partner's arm and guides him around Shawn.

"Shawn, Cruella was the one obsessed with puppies and Ursula was the one that stole voices. And Gus wouldn't appreciate being a gnome. Carlton, stop fighting us and sit down on the toilet before I drag you to the emergency room like I wanted to in the first place."

A silence falls over the bathroom as Juliet slowly tugs off her partner's suit coat before tilting his head close to the light. It's only broken by the mumbled, slightly petulant, protest from Lassiter of: "He started it."

"Yes, I am sure he did. Shawn, could you get some ice for his face while I clean this cut?" She doesn't bother to look up as she sets to work.

Shawn ducks out of the bathroom to give them a few minutes alone, mind firmly set on the quest given to him. Searching through the kitchen drawers for plastic bags, Shawn comes across another impossible thing: there nestled next to what he assumes is Drusilla is a garlic press. It is obviously not new; the metal is smudged from handling and there is a small chip in the paint (pink paint, and isn't that even more unlikely?), but the idea of Lassiter owning a garlic press is laughable. Ridiculous. _Improbable._ Another cabinet reveals delicate champagne flutes next to study tumblers. A heavy marble rolling pin next to steak knives. Thin, dainty tea cups hiding behind plain, serviceable black plates. Impossibilities stacking on top of impossibilities that can only lead to one conclusion.

When he finally opens the freezer and finds a magazine for an AK-47, he sighs in relief. This is familiar. This makes sense and does not leave him feeling sorry for a man that would sooner jump off a cliff than accept pity.

Ice pack firmly in hand, he moves back towards the bathroom. He stops just short of entering when he hears the soft murmur of conversation. Not wanting to intrude, he waits just out of sight.

"This probably needs stitches. Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?"

"I'd rather make out with Michael Chiklis under the mistletoe at the department Christmas party."

"You say that but I seem to remember you looking fondly at the way he handles a gun." He can hear Juliet's smile even if he can't see it from where he is standing.

"He's no—ow!"

"Sorry. Just hold still."

"He's no Eastwood," Lassiter grits through is teeth, once more submitting to Juliet's less than gentle care.

"Few people are. Speaking of weathered, gun-toting men getting into situations they shouldn't…"

"Hey! Weathered?"

"That's the part you focus on? Okay: _veteran_."

"It's not important," Lassiter bites back, tension filling each word.

The silence that ensues is heavy with things unsaid. Shawn knows that it's on the tip of Juliet's tongue to point out that it was important enough for him to call her. Important enough to send her running for her car, terror tightly controlled but there nonetheless, as she turned over in her head a million possibilities about why her (stoic, clean your gun when you feel blue, don't let them catch you unawares) partner would call her on Christmas Eve, voice slurring while asking for a ride home. Instead of giving voice to all her concerns, she hums in acknowledgement. Lassiter will tell her eventually. Never all at once, but in bits and pieces, in offhanded comments after setting her cup of coffee on her desk or while waiting at a stoplight. Berating has never worked with Lassiter, just like he knows that babying doesn't work with her. It's a fine balance they have achieved, communicating with glances and a few words. Shawn knows he will never fully understand their friendship, how two people who are so different could work so well together, but then the same has been said of him and Gus.

Shawn takes Juliet's quiet hum as a signal for him to enter. Holding the bag of ice like a trophy, he keeps his tone light: "Lassie, you have ice cubes shaped like bullets." Awe mixes with his disbelief. "I thought you had a magazine in your freezer, but no... It was your ice cube tray."

"Spencer, I wouldn't keep a magazine in the freezer even if I owned an AK-47." He leans forward and snatches the bag of ice out of Shawn's hands and presses it against his black and blue face. He hisses at the cold for a moment before falling quiet.

"Shawn, will you get him settled in the living room while I get him a clean shirt?"

Shawn's eyes widen for a second and then flick over to Lassiter. Their relationship at the best of times is prickly without the addition of one of them being tipsy and mildly concussed. Every time the gain a bit of ground, a bit of trust, something always trips them up. The grudging respect they share is fragile, made more delicate by Shawn's relationship with Juliet. "I could get it for him."

"I think Carlton would prefer if you didn't go through more of his things."

"Carlton would. Bad enough he went searching through my drawers."

"Lassie, I would never. I am a gentleman. And a scholar."

"My kitchen drawers."

Juliet smiles gently at Shawn and, as she exits the room, nudges Shawn towards her partner. Shawn sets his shoulders and steps in front of Lassiter, arms stretched out. The glare that Lassiter fixes him with would be enough to make Gus' grandmother cry (impressive both because Lassiter is only working with one eye right now and because Gus' grandmother has been dead for almost ten years). It's a standoff, neither man willing to budge from their current positions.

"Okay, we both know I am more than capable of picking you up—"

Lassiter snorts. "Try it and die."

"So let's just do this the easy way. I'll stand back and you walk yourself into the living room while I play spotter."

Lassiter slowly hauls himself to his feet, one hand gripping the edge of the sink for balance. Back bent slightly in an attempt to compensate for the way the room spins slightly, he looks like a seventy year old man. There is a tiredness lingering in the set of his shoulders, a droop, which does not fit the image Shawn has of Lassiter in his head. It reminds him of suede bucks and borrowed wrinkled plaid shirts, of drinking straight from the carton. It's unnerving and skews the balance of the universe.

Shawn brushes past him and makes a beeline for the television. The stack of DVDs in Lassiter's collection has grown— the vast gathering of Eastwood films is now punctuated with oddities: _Back to the Future III_, _Grosse Pointe Blank_, and, perhaps most terrifying, _Roman Holiday._ He blinks at the last one and then glances over at the tree. Out of the corner of his eye, he notes that Lassiter has finally made it to the couch and is staring at the dim Christmas tree with an odd sort of wistfulness. Maybe it is not so impossible after all, Shawn thinks.

In the other room, Shawn can hear Juliet shuffling around through the closet, taking far longer than it should to find a clean shirt. He won't call her on it, not when he still remembers how her face twisted in concern when she first saw Lassiter sitting on the curb, waiting for her to arrive.

"Okay, tough guy, I see you don't have the best Christmas film here, so your choices are _Die Hard _or _Lethal Weapon_." Shawn waves the two DVDs, eager smile firmly in place despite feeling a bit like a fish out of water.

Lassiter's eyes snap to him, eyebrows rising in disbelief. "I swear, Spencer, if you say the best Christmas film is _It's a Wonderful Life_, I will personally throw you into traffic."

"Please, Lassie, we both know the best Christmas films, in order, are _Bad Santa, Gremlins, Trading Places, _and _The Muppet Christmas Carol_. I would argue that _The Star Wars Holiday Special_ should be on that list, but Jules threatened me in a similar fashion, so the Muppets got bumped up."

"The fact that John McClane isn't anywhere on that list makes me question again what she sees in you."

"You're right. Killing vaguely European terrorists is the true meaning of holiday spirit. Now I have a machine gun. Ho ho ho." He slips the DVD in and, as he walks by the tree, turns on the lights. As he expected, it casts the room in a cheerful white glow, making each ornament shine. He ignores the indignant grunt when he flops down onto the couch.

Juliet joins them just as the first lines play, handing over a clean t-shirt before settling down in between Shawn and her partner. As the businessman talks about the secrets of air travel, Lassiter changes out of his ruined shirt and kicks off his shoes, fisting his toes into the rug carpeting. By the time the ice has melted in his Ziploc bag and McClane has walked barefoot over glass, a comfortable quiet has fallen over the living room. Shawn manages to sneak a peek over Juliet's head and notices the lines of tension have slowly faded from around Lassiter's eyes; his posture no longer a sad imitation, but rather curled ever so slightly towards Juliet, both unconsciously seeking comfort and offering protection. Shawn loops his pinky finger with Juliet's and begins to recite the lines along with the film. It catches him by surprise when he hears Lassiter muttering along with him, his voice a quiet rumble in between gunfire. Shawn cannot help but rise to the occasion, attempting his best Hans Gruber imitation while letting Lassiter take John McClane's lines. Juliet quietly laughs in between them all the way through the credits.

"Okay, both of you out. Some of us actually have to work tomorrow." Hauling himself to his feet, he flicks the television off, silencing Vaughn Monroe's rendition of "Let it Snow." The wobble is gone from his step and, though his bruises will be a deep purple in the morning, he no longer looks like someone ready to throw in the towel, which seems to be enough to convince Juliet that it is time for them to go.

As they head out the door, Juliet rises up onto her tip toes and gently kisses Lassiter's cheek, just below one of his bruises. "Merry Christmas, partner."

Lassiter looks oddly stunned but then offers an awkward one armed hug. He wearily eyes Shawn as he draws closer, who stops just short of the threshold before finally turning to face him.

"So, the magical and possibly illusionary Christmas tree…"

"The what?"

"I didn't take you for the type to go all out at Christmas time." Shawn shrugs while taking interest in the lint on his t-shirt.

"I'm not."

Shawn nods slowly and shoves his hands in his pockets. He manages to keep his eyes locked firmly about two inches above Lassiter's head while saying: "Ya know, she'll be out in no time and then you can do all this stuff together. Hang bullet garland, dress up as Mr. and Ms. Claus, handout gun safety pamphlets to good girls and boys. And maybe reorganize the kitchen."

"Shut up, Spencer." It lacks the usual heat and, if it were not for years of practice learning to read Lassiter, Shawn might have missed the begrudging smile. Lassiter pushes him the rest of the way out the door while offering a muttered "Merry Christmas."

Shawn grins, raising his voice to carry loud and clear in the empty hallway of Lassiter's apartment building. "And a happy—"

And if Shawn screws his face up into a ludicrous mask of surprise and offers an indignant squawk just before Lassiter slams his front door shut… well, it is Christmas after all and what better present to offer a man who has every(impossible)thing?


End file.
